


Moonlight Serenade

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [18]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, He dies but he’s old, It’s okay; I promise, Love, Sad, The End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: It has been nearly forty-eight years to the day since Nix spilled his whiskey onto Rissy’s shoe...“Yeah, but I’m sure it’s different now. That was a long time ago. Everything’s different now.”“Not everything.” The woman lets go of her husband’s hand and her fingers rest on his wrist, on the bone, just below his cuff. A tiny smile curls her lips and he responds with an open, lopsided grin. They might as well be the only two people in the room.





	Moonlight Serenade

**Author's Note:**

> This is sad. I wrote it months and months ago; I made myself cry, and then it sat on my computer. I felt like working on it, and it's finally the way I want it, I think.
> 
> It's sad, but then...

Time has marched on, but it has been kind for the most part. Lewis and Clarissa raised their children and watched them grow up, and then they were able to explore the world without the threat of war. Even now, they still travel quite a bit, and to all kinds of places, although their destinations are tamer now than they used to be. They still go to Paris and London and New York even though the days of safaris are behind them. They’ve seen the pyramids and ridden in Venetian gondolas, but they’ve also driven through Midwestern farmland and eaten at roadside diners.

Today, they are about to eat what could be either a very late lunch or an early supper. It’s Chicago, in the early fall of 1991. He is seventy-three, she is seventy-one. They are both well-dressed, although his pants are pulled up a trifle too high the way old men are wont to have them and the waist of her dress does not nip in the way it would have once. She has a small black leather handbag, very understated, and filled with pictures of children and grandchildren, one of whom is about to have a child of her own.

They are wearing sensible but not ugly shoes and crow’s feet and smile lines crease their faces, but they both still have mostly straight posture. His hair is grey and thinner than it was but not sparse at all; her hair has turned an improbable white. It’s very fine, but still long and pinned up. There’s nothing remarkable about either of them, nothing flashy and nothing that calls attention. They’re just two old people sitting together and talking quietly.

Their waitress is young and blonde, and rather distracted today. One is really obligated to excuse her distraction. Her boyfriend is coming home tomorrow, and she can’t wait to see him. He’s been in the Persian Gulf and she’s been scared he won’t come back since the day he left. She has a small enamel American flag pin on the collar of her white shirt. The barrette in her hair is in the shape of a yellow ribbon, but it is composed of rhinestones set in what is probably tin. Again, it is subtle. This is a nice place, it wouldn’t do to be gaudy. The barrette belonged to her grandmother who wore it for a man who did not live to be her grandfather.

She brings water glasses with ice tinkling inside. Arianna smiles as you do, and she asks her questions while she thinks of something else. She lists the specials, asks what they would like to drink, writes down the drink orders. She doesn’t trust her memory today. She does look at them, but she’s not really seeing either of them until the woman asks her a question.

“Where is he?” Arianna gives her a blank look for a moment, and the woman continues. “Your young man? I know that expression.” She reaches to take the man’s hand and their fingers twine together on the white tablecloth. Both of them have dark eyes that don’t look old at all, still sharp and lively, not rheumy in the least.

Arianna’s fingers reach to touch her hair ornament. “Kuwait. He was in Kuwait, but he’ll be back home tomorrow.” She can’t help but to beam, she really can’t.

“He was in France and England and Holland and Germany,” the old woman says, tipping her head towards the man.

“And Belgium,” the man adds. “And Austria.”

“And Belgium. And Austria,” she echoes. You don’t say Carentan or Bastogne or Eindhoven or Berchtesgaden or Aldbourne anymore. No one’s familiar with the names these days, not unless they’re a history major. “But sometimes I was there, too, and that made it easier.”

“Were you?” Ree is a little intrigued, but only just a little. Still, it’s that slow spot between lunch and dinner, so there’s time to talk.

“I was a nurse,” she shrugs. “He’s the one with the stories. He was a paratrooper.”

Ree is sure the woman has stories of her own, but she’s startled and turns toward the man. “So you jumped out of airplanes?”

“Sure did.” His eyebrows are still a defining feature and the smirk is still there.

“Todd--my young man--is in the 101st.”

“So was Lew.” The glance the lady gives her husband is soft and tender. What no one can see is that under the table, her feet have slipped out of her shoes, and one nyloned foot rests in his lap, where he cups the heel. It has been nearly forty-eight years to the day since Nix spilled his whiskey onto Rissy’s shoe.

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure it’s different now. That was a long time ago. Everything’s different now.”

“Not everything.” The woman lets go of her husband’s hand and her fingers rest on his wrist, on the bone, just below his cuff. A tiny smile curls her lips and he responds with an open, lopsided grin. They might as well be the only two people in the room.

When the glance is broken, there is a faint blush on the woman’s cheeks. There are stars in her eyes when she turns her face to Ree.

“Here, look.” Ree expects her to pull a fat old lady’s wallet out of her purse. Instead, it’s a small photo album, tiny, covered in soft champagne colored satin. There are the requisite school pictures and snap-shots of children and birthday cakes and graduation gowns. She skips past all of those, though. “Nobody’s interested in that,” she says, flipping to the very back.

The picture she pulls out wasn’t even in one of the pages; it was tucked into the pocket inside the back cover. The young man is almost impossibly handsome in his dress uniform. The next one is just a candid snap of the same man. His hair is in tufts and he was in the middle of saying something and the screaming eagle was on his shoulder. Then a couple dressed to the nines and grinning under bistro lights. In the last photo, the soldier’s face and hands are filthy, smudged with black, and he’s kissing a laughing dark-haired girl on her cheek.

“Is that you?” Ree asks the woman.

“That’s my girl,” the man, Lew, says. The woman’s eyes have gone sweet and dreamy.

* * *

 

It’s a small miracle that one split second was even captured in black and white. The snapshot shows a soldier kissing a laughing girl, his lips on her cheek and most of her face obscured by his. You can somehow still tell she was laughing, something in the crinkles by her eye and the way her head is thrown back. What you couldn’t see in the picture was the complete and utter joy and relief in her eyes, as they were squeezed shut in her laughter. Rissa hadn’t cared that Nix put handprints on her dress or smudges on her face. She didn’t realize until she walked all the way home that he had also left a handprint on each side of her bottom, and by then it was too late to do anything about it.

She was on her way home after the night shift, a night she spent working and worrying and glancing out windows as if she could find any reassurance there. Rissy wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep when she got back to her room, even though she was bone tired. Her nerves were strung wire-tight.

She walked alone, too irritated for company. There was a convoy going past, the smell and the noise irritated her, too, until a pair of strong arms came around her. She knew it was him before her feet left the ground, before he said a word, before she could look at him. It was the warmth, the way he smelled under the sweat and unwashed hair. She’d recognize it anywhere. He swung her around in a circle and then he put her down and kissed her. Lew wrapped his arms around her, pulled her tight to him and didn’t let go. The kisses were searching and needy, and only ended when the cat-calls and wolf-whistles became impossible to ignore.

They broke apart laughing, Lew had leaned in to kiss her cheek, and someone had snapped a photo. The air smelled like gasoline, the trucks were loud, and Lew was filthy, but she didn’t care.

Then he had to be on his way and she had to be on hers, and she walked the whole way with a smudged face and a smudged bottom and a huge smile and she fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. They hadn’t had but a minute or two, no time even to find out where he was going, but she knew he was okay, and that was enough.

It was also a small miracle that the photo found its way back to them. A copy of it lived in a frame in every home they had, another on a nightstand in every bedroom they shared, one lived in Rissy’s purse, and Rissy was charmed to learn that Nix used one as a bookmark.

She made that small discovery the autumn after Richie went off to college. She picked up Lew’s book and the photo fluttered out. She tucked it back between the pages and then she went to find Nix and kiss him.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Everything,” she answered, taking his newspaper right out of his hands so she could settle in his lap. “It’s for everything.”

* * *

 “Yes, that’s me. Us.” She flips back through the album before she shuts it. Ree catches a glimpse of a young woman who looks about the same age she is. That girl is also dark-haired and pale, in jeans and a white peasant blouse, hands folded over an extremely pregnant belly. The bag slung across her shoulders is olive drab. Ree can make out faded numerals--5765.

The woman sees Ree looking. “That’s our grand-daughter. And our first great-grand-baby. Her husband is over there, too.”

“He’s a marine, but what can you do?” There’s mock-disappointment in the man’s voice, but you can tell he’s only teasing.

“I am partial to soldiers,” says Ree, “but I might be biased.”

“Me, too,” agrees the woman. A tiny half-smile crosses her face and a dimple appears on her cheek. This smile is meant for exactly one person, just as it has been since an early fall evening in 1944, when the moon was bright over a porch surrounded by flowers.

Alas, there is no more time for chit-chat. Several large parties arrive and Ree is busy. She drops of the bill with a smile--a real one--and when she comes back, there is cash on the table, three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

‘Take your young man to dinner’ across the check in masculine handwriting, ‘Give him a kiss!” in a pretty scrawl.

Ree smiles but tears gather in the corners of her eyes. She’ll do both, and she does.

* * *

 Later that night, Mr. and Mrs. Nixon go to the theatre, and have a late supper in the kind of place where the waiters wear dinner jackets, the silver is heavy, and the china is thin. A single candle burns on each small table. There’s a piano in the corner; the lighting is flattering to almost everyone. The greenery is strung with fairy-lights and potted palms stand in the corners.

They are seated by a huge window and Rissy admires the city. A late-night rain starts, the drops streak down the glass, smearing the lights. If she squints, it could almost be Paris. The table is small enough that their feet touch underneath that they could almost bend their heads together. Lew takes her wrist, presses his lips there. Her pulse trembles beneath her skin, both lighter and faster than it once was.

No one would mistake her for a girl now, but Nix still thinks she’s lovely. She looks rosey in the kind light.

“You know, I told Dick I’d bring him here.”

“Did you?”

“I did, yeah. I told him it was a civilized place for civilized men.” He takes a big bite of his steak and Rissy giggles. “I think I said something about an early dinner before the theatre.”

“I think I like the theatre and then a late supper.”

“I think I’m glad I’m here with you.”

Rissy touches his cheek and Nix turns toward her fingers. So dinner, dessert, discussing the play, watching the other people eating--the couples on first dates and the ones that have been together for years, the ones who are happy and the ones who are not. Finally, the tables empty and only a few couples are left, all the large parties have long since left. Nix helps her to her feet, holds her coat for her.

It is still raining outside. The sidewalk glitters with silver. The effect is very pretty, but it is cold. Their umbrella is large and black, big enough to shield them both on the short walk to the curb to a waiting car. It’s too much hassle to drive in the city, not to mention finding a place to park once you’ve arrived wherever you’re going. Clarissa had mentioned wanting to see the Egyptian wing in the Field Museum and a touring exhibit of Fabergé eggs at the Art Institute. She’d said it in passing, just something she’d like to do, and Nix had decided to surprise her with a long weekend. She curls against his side in the back seat of the sleek black car and he is glad he decided to surprise her.

He’d made reservations at the Drake. The room is lovely, and the sheets are impeccably white. Rissy gropes for Lew’s hand in the dark. The bed is enormous; she finds Nix’s hand searching for hers and then he closes the space between them. She sleepily thinks that it’s hard to believe she used to milk cows before school.

The next morning, there is tea in the Palm Court--she still takes too much sugar; he still teases her. In that beautiful room, where everything from the mirrored walls to the china to the carpet is opulent, Lew and Rissy look perfectly at home. They also look perfectly at home in the diner where they eat lunch. The plates and mugs are the sort generic to diners; oatmeal-colored and edged with brown rings. The perspective to appreciate both the luxurious and the mundane was hard-won, but greatly appreciated. Life was much the richer for it.

A few days later they go home. This is longer New Jersey or New York, but California. Sunshine all year round, flowers, green grass, air tinged with salt. Rissa has the man she completely, utterly adores; Nix is still besotted with his wife.

* * *

 Time goes by, seeming slower and faster all at once. The great-grand-baby is born and he grows into a toddler. More babies follow. Christmases, birthdays, Easter, Thanksgiving. Seasons. They go to New England in the fall, to see the leaves. This is the last time they go anywhere, really.

Home is a (comparatively) small yellow house, with white trim and a porch with flowers all around it. Strangely, it’s vaguely reminiscent of an Illinois farmhouse that still exists, although the property around it has been divided up many times over. Large windows let in sunlight that makes the hardwood floors gleam mellowly.

There are black-framed photographs everywhere. A girl called Maria comes in to clean and makes meals. She does the laundry, too. Rissy drinks hot chocolate and lemonade with her on the covered back porch. She does not feel the need to keep this a secret as she once did. Nix and Rissy’s children come and go, and their children, and those children’s babies. They come from all over, from near-by and far away, and they are always welcome.

* * *

 Life is slow and comfortable and familiar, good. When that changes, it’s sudden and the decline is quick.

It was a Wednesday, mid-morning, the sun was slanting through the windows. Lew was in the bed, and Rissa was the only one there with him. Everyone else was outside, the children playing in winter sunshine and the adults somber, looking on from the porch. The grown-ups knew what was sure to happen very soon. They had all said their good-byes for either the day or forever, and left Clarissa and Lewis alone.

The children were all too small to realize. Harrison, the oldest, was only three. He had three little cousins by then, and the ones that could walk were running around the lawn with him. They laughed and chattered, and their parents watched with sad smiles. The smallest child was still a baby cradled in his mother’s arms. Joy’s daughter bowed her head to hide her tears.

Rissa could hear them from her place in a chair by the bed. Richie had pulled it across the room for her. He made sure that she was settled before he dropped a kiss on her head and put a hand to his father’s shoulder. Richie had tears in his eyes; they were precariously close to falling. He didn’t want to cry in front of his parents. He didn’t want to make this harder than it already was.

Lew turned toward his wife who had been his girl, if we’re being honest, since the night he met her in September of 1943, just the same way he’d been hers. His hand inched toward her and she took it, cradling between hers. This was not enough. Rissa climbed up onto the bed and fit herself next to him. It seemed important not to waste even a fraction of a second. They had wasted so much time at the beginning. She’d trade her very soul for even one minute of that time now. But it’s a waste of time to even think of that. She wants every second she has with him now, she won’t spend it wishing for the impossible.

Lew whispered a few words and she whispered some back, brushed his hair back from his forehead in that old and familiar gesture. The first time she’d done it had been so long ago and so far away.

He said a little more, but he did not say good-bye and neither did she. She tried to keep her smile pretty and real, and her lips only trembled a little.

She kissed his forehead and murmured, “It’s okay, Lew. It’ll be okay.” Nix turned his face up to her; she kissed him, looked into his coffee-colored eyes to see the love that had been there long before either one of them would admit it. When he looked back at her, she felt like he was looking right into her. He gave her a lopsided smile, just the one corner turned up, always the left one, and she said that one small sentence for the last time. He nodded, swallowed, and his eyes fell shut. He mouthed the words back, three of them, not four, making it a declaration not a response.

Rissa tucked her head against his shoulder, feeling the pulse in his neck and the way his irregular breathing rumbled in his chest. She lay like that for a long time, with his hand in hers. She thought he might have squeezed her fingers, but later she was never sure. When he stilled, she let out a strangled sob.

How many times had she called his name? Called him for help, in exasperation, in moments of passion, in fear, just simply wondering where he was? He couldn’t answer her anymore.

He was at home, in his own bed, safe, clean, comfortable. It was quiet and peaceful, with a clean, sweet breeze floating through the window. He died by no one’s hand but God’s. Not a bullet, not falling from the sky, not with his hand fisted around a bottle. He was at home, with the people who love him close by, and with Rissy right beside to him. Not bad, really, when you consider what might have been, what very nearly was.

The angle of the sun changed, shadows crept across the floor. Clarissa only looked up when she heard boots in the hall. The step was light and feminine. Julie had taken to wearing jump boots as well as carrying her grandfather’s old musette bag. She’s a good girl. Only in the deepest recesses of her heart could Clarissa admit she had a favorite grandchild, but of course it’s Julie, dark-haired, sweet, sarcastic Julie who delights in the absurd.

Maybe it was that Julie had always loved her grandpa so. How those grey eyes would watch him with fascination, or how they sparkled during loving verbal sparring. She came to Normandy with them once; she walked right out into the water where she knelt and cried. She listened; she did not ask too many questions. She majored in history and minored in French. She could play at arguing in two languages.

“Grandma?” Her voice was also light and sweet. “Ooh--” She swallowed, her hands flew to the hollow of her throat. “Is he--?”

Clarissa could do nothing more than nod.

“I’ll go get--”

“Don’t--” It came out as a frog’s croak and Clarissa cleared her throat. “Just stay here with me. Don’t leave me alone.”

Eventually, Michael came to find his wife. He didn’t even come into the room, he just stopped at the doorway and turned around, unnoticed, to go silently back down the stairs and out on the porch. He spared Clarissa and Julie from having to be the ones to say it. He also spared Richie from having to make the telephone calls.

* * *

 First comes the funeral. Dick gives the eulogy. Next is the burial. Clarissa stands between Richie and his oldest son. They support her, holding her elbows, as if she might fall at any moment. She actually thinks she might until she catches Dick’s blue eyes. They are red-rimmed, but they also offer comfort and strength. Clarissa is still the same girl who screamed at a doctor once upon a time, who told the men in her care they would be fine and made them believe it even when she was panicking. She can get through this day, and the ones that will come after it.

Still, the luncheon is almost torture. People are all around her, but she is alone for the first time since she was twenty-three. Or so she thinks, until Dick sits at her left side and a tiny little old lady with blue eyes perches next to her right and takes her hand. Not a word passes between them, and Rissa leans her head on Lise’s shoulder.

“Bless you,” Lise murmurs. Her James is frail; she wonders what she will do when this day comes for her. “ _Je t’aime, chère_.”

* * *

 Winter ends and spring begins. It is a very rainy April, but that only means everything will soon n be green and growing. The lilies of the valley will run riot. Julie, Michael, and Harrison have moved into the pretty yellow house so that Clarissa won’t be alone. The house is too big for just one person, and she needs the people who love her. She also doesn’t want to leave the last place she shared with Lew. To even think of leaving feels like a betrayal when it seems as if he’s still just around every corner.

Clarissa still has the largest bedroom, Maria still comes in to clean. The framed photos stay in place, the sunbeams follow their same familiar path. But now Harrison’s toys are strewn across the rug and Julie sings when she cooks. Michael leaves the house in scrubs and sleeps at odd hours. Another night owl.

Harrison sits on Clarissa’s lap every afternoon before his nap. She rocks him until he falls asleep. He’s nearly three and a half, a sweet little thing with grey eyes and sandy hair. He fits against her body while she reads to him and gets heavy in her lap when he starts to drowse.

In the evenings, Clarissa kisses him good-night and Julie puts him to bed, reading stories and singing to him while she lies in his bed. Once the little boy is asleep, Clarissa and Julie sit up together. Michael often needs to stay late at the hospital; he is almost done with his residency. Both women are glad for the company. They watch old movies, Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty. Clarissa tells Julie stories, all kinds of things, things she never told her children.

Julie listens to Clarissa’s version of the second world war, to the love story that’s woven in. She’s surprised to learn that her grandmother was ever married to anyone other than her grandfather. Clarissa is surprised she didn’t know. It wasn’t ever any kind of secret, it was just something that wasn’t often mentioned.

Clarissa got out an old box. It was filled with keepsakes and letters tied together with blue ribbon. There were two stacks, the addresses written in two sets of handwriting, Lew’s familiar hand and the schoolboy penmanship of Clarissa’s first husband.

She sorted through black and white photographs, men in uniform and girls in dresses and skirts. Underneath the one of herself and Lewis and the people that had been their friends and family, was a five-by-seven portrait of a soldier. John Edward Mitchell, or just Johnny, had an open honest face and an easy smile. Julie said he was very handsome and Clarissa agreed.

Julie enjoyed her grandmother’s stories, but it’s more than simple enjoyment that keeps her listening. It’s history--her own family’s history--and she doesn’t want it to be forgotten, but more than that, her grandma seems to need to share. Maybe she needs to remind herself what happened, maybe she needs to relive it. If it brings her comfort to talk, Julie will listen.

The days and the evenings were full, but the nights were lonely and hard. Clarissa often woke before dawn to watch the sun rise and to miss Lew. Funny that the sunrise could bring the memories back so fiercely. Neither one of them had been morning people by any stretch of the imagination.

* * *

 The first really warm night of the year, Clarissa leaves both the window and the curtains open. The moon is huge, impossibly close, and the stars are twinkling beyond it. Taurus and the seven sisters hang in the sky. The lost pleiad was the luckiest one, she thinks.

* * *

Julie wakes in the pale light of dawn; Michael sleeps deeply beside her. It’s so quiet she can hear the clock ticking in the hall. The birds are twittering outside. Everything in the bedroom is muted and silver-tinged, prettily gloomy. Julie pads to the bathroom, stopping to check on Harrison, and peering into the master bedroom on her way back to bed.

White curtains stir in the breeze scented with lilacs and lily of the valley. Muguet, her grandmother called it. She looks so small in the large bed, curled up on the side that had always belonged to Lew. The curtains move with the air’s gentle currents; Clarissa is silent and still.

Julie shakes Michael awake with tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat. She can’t manage to make any words come out. Even though he is groggy with sleep, Michael knows what has happened as soon as he sees Julie’s face.

He holds her and lets her cry, murmuring into her hair. “It’ll be alright, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’m here.”

* * *

 LOCATION: HEAVEN {or whatever after-life you may or may not believe in}

It’s not exactly clear what this place _is_ : there are tables and chairs and a mahogany bar. The wood is all rich and gleaming. The table linens and china are fine and pristine, the silverware and candleholders are weighted. The light is mellow. There is a big band warming up just out of the light’s reach. The brass instruments gleam, too, but the faceless musicians are all in shadow. The trumpets and saxophones chirp and trill while a piano trips up and down the scales. There is no reek of alcohol or smoke. There is no food or drink at all, but the very air is tantalizing enough to make your mouth water.

Beyond the bandstand and the dance floor, there are columns, flowers, fountains, long, sweet grass and towering English oaks, beaches, and cobblestone alleys that disappear into nothing. It all blends seamlessly together. Sunrise and sunset are both happening at once with a star-strewn sky stretching endlessly between. It’s impossible, but no one seems to find it odd or even remarkable.

He sees more than a few familiar faces, and they are all young, healthy, unmarred by time or injury. He leans on the bar. The bottles and glasses and fixtures are sparkling clean and inviting, but he finds no temptation there at all. Beyond all that is a mirror, and that’s what catches his attention. His own reflection shows him a young man in an immaculate dress uniform, shining buttons and crisp creases. There are captain’s bars on his collar and his garrison cap. He’s in his Ike jacket, the one she’d always liked best.

Just for a second, he thinks of a book he’d read once. He couldn't remember the title; it was something one of his grandchildren had left it behind after reading it for school. He’d picked it up and paged through it and finished most of it in one day. A few lines had stuck with him, something about how everyone has a specific moment in time that belongs to him. How the world leaves its imprint, how it leaves you changed, and how that specific time will always be your reality. Nix supposes it was the war years for him, just like it was for the kid in the book. It was a time full of both the best and the worst life has to offer. So maybe it is fitting that he’s back here again.

Of course, it’s fitting. It was the start of his real life, a horrid, messy break from everything that came before. It was hell, but there were still good things even there. He had a great life when he got home, and the perspective to appreciate it, but nothing ever seemed as vital as his time in the Army did. It wasn’t, and this is a blessing. That time seemed vital because it was; everything was stripped down to the bones of necessity because that was all that mattered. Later there was so much to be thankful for, including the fact that he went to Europe and not the Pacific. Good things had been much scarcer there. And, of course, he wouldn’t have met a certain dark-haired nurse. Yes, life had been good, better than good, even if it had seemed a bit colorless and strange for a while.

He catches sight of a girl in the mirror. She has dark hair and red lips. He doesn’t get more than a glimpse of her face, but he knows it’s her just the same. He’d know her figure and the way that she moves anywhere. Besides, he’s been waiting for her for quite some time. Her dress is a soft ivory, and she is coming towards him, only she doesn’t know it yet. Her eyes search the room--if that’s what this is--for anyone she might know. He can't look away even though he can't see her quite clearly. He drinks up the sight of her, and it warms him and fills him with longing more than any tumbler of Vat 69 ever did. Finally, she’s right behind him, almost close enough to touch, close enough to catch her perfume, violets and lily of the valley. There’s a flower tucked behind her ear. It has been so long, and he doesn’t think he can wait another moment.

Glen Miller’s In the Mood gently swells. Over the music, he hears a light, sweet voice canting up in a question as she nears the bar. He utters a small, involuntary gasp, and if he didn’t know better he’d say his heart is about to beat right out of his chest. This time he knows her face will be as pleasing as her voice, that she’ll be a pretty girl with a pretty mouth. This time, he won’t waste any time, even though they have an eternity ahead of them. Maybe they’ll get another chance, maybe they’ll get to do it all again, but just the sweet parts, none of the uncertainty or fear, or any of the pain either. No complications, only love.

Nix turns around.

Rissy smiles.

♥


End file.
